[Crane is sitting in his room at the inn, listening to a harmonious piece of music while transcribing notes into his journal. Arguments and discourse offer a sense of satisfaction, the easing of his curiosity, each and every word written in the next empty page.]

Well, I believe their return bodes neither good nor ill: whether they come home or not is a simple fact to which we must adapt.

[From every depth of good and ill, indeed. Poetry is language chosen and rearranged for rhythm and meaning. The overflowing of wordplay - a game he enjoys.]

Come the end of the day, are not the Fey are worth the respect of our caution?